I debated on whether to address this further, but I decided it would nag at me for the rest of the night if I didn’t.

I have offended you. You find me abrasive. You dislike me or the things I post. Well, I’m not going to change who I am or what I do because someone doesn’t like me. If you find me so obnoxious, why are you here?

I am going to use social media to promote myself. This is my job. This is what I do. Social media is a tool for writers, and my primary objective is to display my books so they will sell.

That is what I do.

Some authors take an entirely professional approach to social media, posting only book-related news. I do that as well, on the Facebook fan page. You can go there and like it, or to my website, and get every bit of information you need without dealing with that pesky personality issue.

Some authors chronicle their day. ‘I’m awake.’ ‘I’m writing.’ ‘I’m looking out the window.’ I make some of those posts too, here on Tumblr, on Twitter, or on Facebook. When the urge to interact overwhelms me and I have nothing relevant to say, I post something in the hopes that someone, anyone, will speak to me. Because writing is lonely. I’ve gone some days where the only human voice I hear is my own or that of actors on TV or a singer on iTunes. Just knowing that someone is out there can combat the sense that I am alone.

But I try to have fun with it, and that is where Tumblr comes in. It’s still an unconventional forum for writers, not many M/M authors were here when I started. I’m still not sure there are many. I try to do new things so neither I nor my readers will get bored. The AskAbi blog came about because I was being inundated with questions and they were clogging up my dash, so I separated them so people could follow if they wished.

Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook. These things are not a requirement. You do not have to follow them. You do not have to check them out. You do not have to discover that I am a human being.

If I rub you the wrong way because I use my own vehicles to promote myself … how can I put this diplomatically? Let’s try go fuck yourself.

I will admit that I am upset right now, and it all comes down to this. You don’t know me. And you don’t have to.

I’ve been in constant pain since I was 14 years old, and it’s the first thing I think of every morning, and the last thing I think of every night. I’ve been loyal to people who betrayed me over and over and I have never learned my lesson. I lost touch with every friend I ever had in the first 23 years of my life because the only thing we had in common was the sport of volleyball. I lost the first love of my life because my body was no longer capable of taking the abuse of playing sports. My husband berated every life choice I made, cheated on me, and then walked out. My writing partner quit on me without a word of warning, leaving me to carry what has become this massive series and to work under the intense spotlight that follows it. And that spotlight is becoming brighter and more painful.

Humor and sarcasm are how I cope. But if you don’t want to know that, you don’t have to. If you want to know that and then don’t like it, go fuck yourself.

This year I will donate over $1600 to Big Cat rescue organizations, including adopting the real Barnum the Bengal Tiger in Texas, the one I flew to see, for an entire year. And yet, I’ve received criticism that I don’t do proper research because everyone knows there are no tigers in Texas.

Just last week I donated $300 to the Red Cross, and I promoted the hell out of myself to raise the money. I felt guilty about every post I made to sell my books.

I’ve raised almost $3,500 to donate to the Wounded Warrior Project and Got Your 6 through the sales of T-Shirts, Cafepress merchandise, compasses, and charms. I wasn’t going to tell anyone the numbers, because it didn’t matter how much, as long as I did it. But as a reward, I’m being sent nasty anonymous messages about being self-absorbed.

So. Go fuck yourself.